


Lipstick Stamps on My Passport

by okapi



Series: Your Extra Time and Your Kiss [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Anonymous Sex, Bathroom Sex, Cunnilingus, Discussion of Gender, Dream Sex, Exhibitionism, F/F, Fem!mycroft, Femslash, Foursome - F/F/F/F, Genderswap, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Male!Anthea, Public Sex, Rimming, Shower Sex, Vaginal Fingering, dildo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:59:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1685879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes: International Woman of Mystery. With a girl in every port. </p><p>Featuring Fem!Mycroft and a healthy dose of Snarky!Male!Anthea. Chapters: JFK, PAP, LHR, TPE, GIG</p><p>Inspired by Revlon Super Lustrous Lipstick in Touch of New York, Sarodj by Maite Makeup Company in I Love Haiti, L'Oreal Colour Riche Lipcolour in British Red, Maybelline Color Elixir Lip Color in Mandarin Rapture and L'Oreal Colour Riche Lipstick in Brazil Nut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John F. Kennedy International Airport (JFK)

**Author's Note:**

> Because I whump on Mycroft all the time and felt like she needed some fun for once. Title and chapters come from the song "Talk Dirty to Me" by Jason Derulo.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft soothes a nervous traveler.

“Welcome to New York, Ms. Holmes. Business or pleasure?”

“Business, always. Thank you.”

 

Mycroft was washing her hands at the sink. The murmur of arrivals and departures quieted as the door swung shut.

The stall door behind her bounced open with a _whunk-whunk_. A tall, thin woman was struggling with a prescription bottle. She shoved the bottle in her purse and stumbled to the sink, to the space between Mycroft and the wall. She washed her hands as Mycroft dried hers. Then, the woman attacked the bottle again. It gave way with a plastic _pop_.

“Flying, you know,” said the woman. “Nerve-racking. Planes whooshing by within 100 feet of each other. Plonking into the Hudson. Vanishing completely.” The woman’s hands shook. “Hate this stuff, but whatcha gonna do?" She tapped a yellow pill in her hand. "You seem to have your shit together.”

Without a swish of the head, Mycroft noted that she and the woman were alone in the room.

_She’s speaking to me. American. Vocalizing thoughts that are better left, well, thoughts._

She was tall—taller than Mycroft—in black high-heeled shoes. Black, sleeveless, leather top that flared at the waist. Black skirt. Long, straight blonde hair pulled back in a severe pony tail. A deep copper-coloured pout. Looking like a runway model. Like the Empire State building in a cityscape of tracksuits and trainers. It might have been her beauty. But it was probably her cut-glass cheekbones and the vulnerable half-smile she threw Mycroft as their eyes locked in the mirror.

She popped the pill in her mouth.

Xanax? Ativan? _Valium._

With a speed and ruthlessness emblematic of her fieldwork days, Mycroft hooked her arms around the girl’s waist and drug her into the far stall, slamming it closed with a _whunk_. Taking advantage of the women’s confusion and imbalance, she kicked off the woman’s shoes, putting them at eye-level. She held the woman’s face tightly in her hands, pulling her lower jaw down. She clamped her mouth on the woman’s mouth and fished the pill out of the woman’s mouth with her tongue. She huffed it into the toilet.

Then, Mycroft kissed her. Brutal, hard, a kiss that brokered no compromise and sought to obliterate the woman’s anxious buzzing. She turned her head and slotted their mouths, licking at the woman’s lips and offering an invitation. The woman melted against Mycroft, curling her arms around her neck and weaving her fingers in her short hair. Mycroft tugged at her ponytail, pulling her head back. She took the tip of the woman’s chin in her mouth and sucked and scraped her teeth gently against skin and bone; then she trailed kisses along her jawline. The woman hummed and nosed at the side of Mycroft’s face, then sought her mouth again. Their lips met and parted. Met and parted. Over and over. In between kisses, their foreheads touched and rolled against each other. Mouths opened again; tongues roamed. The woman pulled away with a lewd slurp. She kissed Mycroft’s top lip.

“You _definitely_ have your shit together,” she drawled.

Mycroft’s hands slid down the leather and found the side zip of the skirt. She lowered it and guided them to the other side of the stall, pulling the woman to her. She bent her head to kiss and lick and suck and bite one round toned shoulder while two hands snaked inside the woman’s skirt, cupping her arse. The woman slumped against Mycroft. Mycroft pushed her leg between the woman’s. The woman straddled her and began grinding eagerly. She tried to raise one leg, and Mycroft aided her by moving her hand down and supporting and squeezing her sinewy thigh.

Mycroft’s other hand moved from behind and made quick work of the tiny undergarment the woman was wearing. She pulled it aside with her hand and began tracing the woman’s entrance.

The wetness her fingers found made Mycroft grunt softly.

“Oh, oh, oh. OH!” groaned the woman.

Mycroft raised her head and silenced the woman's mouth with her own. Through her layers of suit, she barely felt the woman claw at her shoulders. Mycroft inserted one, then two fingers in the woman’s wet cunt, while the woman rutted furiously against Mycroft’s trousered leg. Mycroft curled and flexed the fingers inside the woman, gauging her response with licks to her pulsing neck.

“Right there? Right there, my girl?” teased Mycroft in a low voice.

The woman pushed down, impaling herself deeper on Mycroft’s fingers. Mycroft covered the woman’s mewling lips with her own. Erratic rubbing soon reached a fevered crescendo, and the woman broke away to give a soft cry.

“OH!”

She pushed into Mycroft with slow, hard circles of her hips. Mycroft held her until she stilled, brushing her lips back and forth across her shoulder. The woman nuzzled at Mycroft’s neck. Then, she looked at her with dazed eyes. Mycroft released her, and the woman stumbled back to the other side of the stall and leaned against the wall.

“Your flight will be fine,” said Mycroft calmly. She was rewarded with a half-smile that made something inside her flutter.

“Somehow…I believe you.”

“It’s the accent.”

Mycroft took out her mobile and snapped a photograph of the woman’s face. She flushed the toilet with her foot. Then, she strode out the door, wiping her mouth and hands on a handkerchief.

“Okay, ma’am?”

Anthea sprang off the wall and quickly binned his greasy chips.

“Yes. Please gather any intel on American flight...," she looked at her mobile..."2351 to Miami, cross-reference the manifest with our lists.”

“Which lists?”

“ _All_ of them. If there’s any cause for concern, make sure _this woman_ ,” she tapped her mobile and Anthea’s beeped, “does not board.”

Anthea looked at his phone. Then, he looked at Mycroft.

“And get rid of these. I don't care how.” She surreptitiously slid the prescription bottle in his jacket pocket.

“Yes, ma’am,” he smirked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That scene in the film Ocean's Eleven where Brad Pitt's character is eating greasy French fries in a $5000 shirt--that's our Anthea.


	2. Toussaint Louverture International (PAP)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft showers accompanied.

“ _Bienvenue à Port-au-Prince,_ Madame Holmes. Business or pleasure?”

“ _Merci_. Business, always.”

 

“ _Mesi ampil_ ,” said Mycroft as she took the key from the front desk clerk. “Alright. Twenty minutes and I want to go over tomorrow’s itinerary,” she said to Anthea.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Madame Holmes?” A woman approached her. She wore a dark suit jacket with dark skirt. A bright pink camisole peeked out along her cleavage, highlighting her coffee-coloured skin. It matched her bright pink lips. Large, gold hoops dangled from her ears.

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to make you aware of our personalized concierge services, should you require them.” She smiled warmly. “Please don’t hesitate to contact me if there is some way I can make your stay more comfortable.” She handed Mycroft a business card.

“Thank you.”

In the ascending elevator, Mycroft flipped the card over to see four digits written on the back. She raised an eyebrow and slipped the card in her inside jacket pocket.

 

Sometime later, Mycroft rubbed the bridge of her nose between her fingers. The telephone on the desk rang.

“Madame Holmes? I just wanted to see if you found your accommodations satisfactory.” The lilting voice had a pleasant, just-shy-of-teasing quality.

Mycroft smiled and looked around the room.

“Very satisfactory.”

“There’s nothing you require? Extra towels, perhaps?”

In the privacy of the room, Mycroft allowed herself an irrational swivel of the head.

_Is she…talking to me...flirting with me?_

“Perhaps…later?” Mycroft suggested hesitantly.

“Until later,” she replied sweetly. The telephone clicked. Mycroft returned to the lit screen of her computer, but after several minutes of clicking, she sighed and turned it off. She went to the toilet and turned on the light.

There were no towels. At all. Anywhere.

Mycroft pressed her lips together to hide a smile. She retrieved the card from her jacket and dialed the numbers on the hotel telephone.

“Ms. Holmes?”

“Yes, I am afraid that I do require some extra towels.”

“I am so sorry for the inconvenience. I will bring them to you myself. One or two?”

Pause.

“Two.”

“Excellent.”

 

Mycroft turned on the shower and stripped off her clothes. She stepped into the warm spray and combed her fingers through her hair. The small room fogged with steam. She moved closer to water.

A body pressed into her back. Arms twined around her chest and then circled up, pulling her back towards soft skin. Mycroft rolled her head backwards, to left then right, chasing a warm mouth that licked and bit at her neck. Brown hands followed the streams of water, down Mycroft’s shoulders, ribcage, and hips to the tops of her thighs. A nose rubbed back and forth between her shoulder blades.

Mycroft gently pushed a bar of soap in the woman’s hands. She felt a smile pressed to the center of her back. Then, strong fingers produced a lather that was smoothed onto Mycroft’s skin. Soon, the tiny space filled with the scent of coconut oil. Mycroft closed her eyes and gave herself over to strokes that were part massage, part caress. It was a blend of efficiency and skill, pleasure and precision, that Mycroft, were she pressed, would confess was quite… _enchanting_.

The woman ran her hands up and down Mycroft’s arms as the spray rinsed her front. Mycroft did a swift about-face and kissed the woman. The water cascaded down her back as she plundered the woman’s mouth with a searching tongue. Mycroft held the woman’s face gently. Her hair was hidden under a severe black cap, but the gold hoops remained.

 _“Anchante,”_ whispered Mycroft.

“Nice to meet _you_ ,” teased the woman, turning Mycroft to face the spray again. Then, the warm mouth was moving down her spine. Two hands spread her buttocks and, then, there was a teasing lick at her rim.

And then Mycroft Holmes indulged in one fleeting luxury that had nothing to do with mints on pillows or VIP suites.

She allowed one loud, deep, guttural groan to escape from her lips and echo against the tile. The woman’s tongue probed and licked while curious hands wound up between Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft guided the woman’s hands to her cunt and clit.

Very little instruction was needed. Soon, Mycroft’s hands were bracing herself against the tile, reveling in the tendrils of pleasure that were coiling inside her. The urgency built until she tensed, grunted faintly and then, eased the woman’s hands from her body. She felt the woman rise and rest her cheek against Mycroft’s back, curling her arms around Mycroft’s waist.

Then, Mycroft opened her eyes and quickly turned off the water. She pulled back the curtain and held her arm out. The woman took it and stepped carefully.

Both laughed at the two fluffy towels folded on the counter. Mycroft dried herself with lightening speed and secured the towel around her torso. Then, she unfurled the second towel with a magician’s flourish and shot the woman an inquiring look. The woman nodded.

Mycroft dried the woman’s skin with deliberate circling strokes. Face, neck, shoulders, back, stomach, hips, buttocks, legs, and feet. No part went unattended. Lastly, she rubbed between the woman’s legs with a towel-draped hand.

With the steady, unremitting back-and-forth motion, the woman began to unravel. She moaned and drew her own hands up her stomach to her breasts, cupping them and offering them to Mycroft’s hungry mouth. Mycroft tasted one then the other with short kitten licks before returning to suckle with long, hard draws. A strong arm held the woman upright as her knees buckled. Mycroft pulled off a swollen nipple with a _pop_ and kissed up the woman’s neck.

Mycroft dropped the towel. She swept all the toiletries from the counter with one arm and hoisted the woman on the steam-slicked surface. The gold hoops clanked against the mirror. Mycroft lifted one knee up until the woman’s heel braced the edge of the counter. The woman spread her other leg and curled her hips upward.

Mycroft bent and sucked the woman’s clit. The woman gasped. She wove the fingers of one hand in Mycroft’s damp hair, pressing her mouth to her. She massaged her own breast with her free hand. Mycroft fondled the other breast. She opened the woman’s folds with deft fingers and inserted her tongue deep inside. The woman released her breast and played with her own clit while Mycroft’s mouth sucked. The woman’s heaving grew louder. She released her tensed legs and draped them over Mycroft’s shoulders and shoved Mycroft’s head into her core. Then, Mycroft added the tiniest graze of teeth to her ministrations, and the woman was keening with broken phrases Mycroft didn’t recognize, but nevertheless recorded mentally. _For later study._

When Mycroft felt the woman relax, she straightened herself to full height. She placed one arm under the woman’s arms and the other under her knees and gently set her standing on the floor. Then, she enveloped the woman in her arms, holding her in protective embrace, prolonged to an almost _sentimental_ —she could hear her sister’s snide pronunciation of the word—length.

“Thank you for the towels,” Mycroft consciously softened the one, but both women understood it for the dismissal it was.

“My pleasure.”

Mycroft bent to pick up the discarded towel. The woman took it and wrapped it around herself.

“Your family is from…?” asked Mycroft as the woman opened the door. The cool rush of air was sobering.

“Manneville,” the woman answered, turning back.

“Might want to consider a visit home,” Mycroft said with subtle gravity. They locked eyes. “The city can be… _unpleasant_ at times.”

The woman nodded. _“Bònn nui,_ Madame Holmes _,”_ she sang as she slipped out.

 _“Bònn nui,”_ replied Mycroft, raking a hand through her hair absentmindedly and shaking her head at… _nothing_.

 

“Leaving so soon?” The woman pouted.

They were two still islands in a sea of motion and noise: taxis full of guests arriving and departing; the whistle of hotel staff and the rumble of trolleys heaped with luggage; doors opening, doors closing; cheery welcomes and good-byes.

“It is a pity,” confessed Mycroft. “A photo, if I may?”

The woman nodded. “Perhaps you will return? One day?”

“ _Ak pasyans w ap wè tete pis_ ,”replied Mycroft with a smile. The woman laughed and struck a pose as Mycroft clicked her mobile.

 

“Fifteen million pounds in earthquake relief unaccounted for. Diplomatic channels have proved ineffective. Certain Whitehall parties are _quite_ concerned. Thus…,” Mycroft shrugged as the taxi made its way through the city, “Dynamite is set. Fuses are lit. Time to…”

“Go home?”

“Yes, no need to witness the blast. Home, James, and don’t spare the horses.”

Anthea smiled.

“And Anthea?”

“Hm?” Anthea’s mobile beeped.

“This woman, please add her name to our files. Should it appear in conjunction with any kind of…immigration petition, make me aware. We may be able to assist her.”

“Hello!” said Anthea softly when the photo popped up on the tiny screen. He twisted his head to look at Mycroft and opened his mouth.

She interrupted.

_“Zafè kabrit pa zafè mouton.”_

Anthea closed his mouth. Then, he opened it again,

“Does that make me the sheep or the goat?”

_Infernal cheek!_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haitian Creole courtesy of Wikipedia: _Ak pasyans w ap wè tete pis._ –Anything is possible. (Literally: With patience you will see the breast of the ant); _Zafè kabrit pa zafè mouton._ —Focus on how you do your own work instead of interfering with other's work. (Literally: The goat's business is not the sheep's business.)


	3. London Heathrow Airport (LHR)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft gets a surprise visit from Lestrade.

“Welcome home, Ms. Holmes.”

“Thank you.”

 

Mycroft was looking at her mobile. She swiped the screen with her thumb.

“So I guess I’ll be off…” said Anthea, coming up behind her.

“No,” replied Mycroft slowly, staring at the device. “Change of plans.” She made a twirling gesture with her finger. “Taipei.”

Anthea whined. Mycroft stared at him.

“Well, I want a nice long layover in Amsterdam!”

“Very well,” said Mycroft in a placating tone. “We leave in,” she looked at her mobile, “one hundred and nineteen minutes.”

“Plenty of time to cancel my dinner plans. _Again_.”

Mycroft’s voice turned steely,“I also recommend that you avail yourself of the quickest and most efficient method of petulance removal before we reassemble. Or you will find yourself in Amsterdam. Permanently. Unemployed and unemployable.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

The airline clerk handed Mycroft her ticket. She tapped some keys on the screen. Then, she picked up a desk telephone and listened. She returned the telephone to its base.

“Ms. Holmes, would you like to make use of our Diamond-level Executive Lounge while you wait?”

A small flag of alarm went off in Mycroft’s head, but she nodded and followed the woman through a series of doors that opened with key card swipes.

“Someone will let you know when we’re boarding.”

“Thank you.”

The lounge was small, but very clean. One side was a huge window facing the tarmac. The other side was lined with a counter offering a variety of beverages and light refreshments. The space was empty. She settled herself in a leather chair facing away from the window and put her bag right behind her feet. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

Mycroft woke startled. She relaxed when she noted very familiar hands, then very familiar coat sleeves, curl around her chest in an embrace. Even more familiar was the voice that whispered in her ear,

“Hello, stranger.”

“Hello,” answered Mycroft, making no attempt to hide the grin that bloomed across her face.

Lestrade came around in front of her.

“What good is a badge if you can't cut through security?” she flirted as she sat a large, heavy handbag on a small table beside Mycroft.

“No good at all,” teased Mycroft. Her eyes widened at figure before her. Lestrade was decked out in a short, curly platinum wig and sporting bright red lips. She wore a long, brown coat, buttoned high and belted.

“Disguise,” said Lestrade, fluffing her hair with her hand and puckering her lips. “John’s idea. You look at little tired, love.”

“Bit. However, I feel a second wind coming on,” Mycroft dropped her voice to a low rumble. “C’me here.”

Lestrade straddled her, and they kissed passionately. Mycroft broke away to throw a glance at the door. Lestrade shook her head, “We’ve got it to ourselves for a while.”

“That is a _very_ good badge,” said Mycroft smiling. Lestrade nodded.

“Not that I am complaining _at all_ ,” Mycroft touched Lestrade’s lip with her thumb, “but, what’s the occasion?”

“You’ve been traveling a lot…” Lestrade unbelted and unbuttoned the coat.

“…More to come, I’m afraid.”

“Thought you might need a pick-me-up. And the lips…match _this_.” Lestrade pulled the sides of the coat apart.

Mycroft inhaled sharply.

Lestrade wore a [bright red, satin bra ](http://www.agentprovocateur.com/lingerie/suspenders/info/jena-suspender~red)that scooped around her like ribbons and put her ample, round breasts on lavish display. The suspenders and knickers matched.

Mycroft buried her nose in Lestrade’s cleavage.

“Once again, not that I am complaining. _At. All._ But, behind me there is a large window…”

“Mmm-hmm. Don’t worry about that.” Lestrade bent down and kissed Mycroft. She opened Mycroft’s trousers and then retrieved something from her bag. Suddenly, Mycroft felt some odd movements and heard odd noises. Lestrade never broke the kiss but she seemed to be twisting and lifting Mycroft’s hips, doing _something_ in Mycroft’s trousers that was incongruous to the seductive visual feast before Mycroft’s eyes. Straps were tightened. Lestrade pulled back with a smirk.

“There.”

Mycroft looked down at the harness. “That was…very _efficient_.”

“I practiced.”

“Your friendship with Dr. Watson truly knows no bounds.”

Lestrade laughed.

“Now those,” she looked up behind Mycroft’s shoulders, “baggage handlers and…whoever…back there…”

She attached a dildo to the harness.

“…will just see a well appointed business executive…”

She coated the dildo with lubricant.

“…getting serviced…”

She stood up and slipped off the knickers.

“…by his buxom blonde mistress. And I don’t care who sees that.”

Lestrade sunk down on the dildo, and Mycroft _could_ not restrain a groan.

“Missed you,” whimpered Lestrade into Mycroft’s mouth.

Mycroft cupped Lestrade’s arse hard. “This feels like a wicked, wicked dream,” she sighed and pulled the red satin down so she could lick Lestrade’s nipple with a flickering tongue. Lestrade pushed the other side down, and Mycroft teased the other nipple. Lestrade sought Mycroft’s mouth for a wet, sloppy kiss. Then, she purred in her ear.

“Mr. Holmes…?”

“Yes, Miss Lestrade?”

“Suck my tits hard while I ride your cock.”

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Mycroft latched onto Lestrade’s breast hard and squeezed the other roughly. One hand twined around Lestrade’s waist, aiding her as she pumped her body up and down on the dildo. Mycroft rubbed her face against the orbs and slipped both hands around Lestrade for support. Then, she sat back, watching with juvenile glee, as Lestrade’s breast bounced.

“Enjoying this?” heaved Lestrade.

“You have no idea. _Gorgeous._ A sinful, depraved fantasy come to life.”

Lestrade’s movements slowed until she stopped and snuggled next to Mycroft, tucking her head in the juncture of Mycroft’s neck and shoulder.

“Mycroft…?”

“Anything, Gregory.”

“Play with me ‘til I come,” she said softly.

“Gladly.”

Mycroft put lubricant on her little finger and teased Lestrade’s rim. Then she slipped a hand between them and toyed gently with Lestrade’s clit until Lestrade was pushing hard on the dildo.

“Oh, oh. _Yes_. Mycroft!” Lestrade clung to her, one hand tight around her waist and the other around her neck, gripping at skin and muscle beneath her shirt collar. Together, they lifted Lestrade off the dildo. Mycroft made quick work of removing the device and harness and dropping them into Lestrade’s bag. Lestrade stood up and wrapped the flimsy brown coat around herself.

“I don’t want to mess up your clothes,” she said weakly.

Mycroft growled and lunged at her, pulling Lestrade back to her lap.

“Are you sore?” asked Mycroft, brushing Lestrade’s pubic hair with a gentle finger.

“Bit. Worth it.”

“I want to kiss it and make it better.” Then, with predatory swiftness, Mycroft flipped Lestrade in the chair, fell to her knees, pulled Lestrade to the edge of the seat, and pushed back the lower half of the coat. She turned all her powers of observation and analysis to Lestrade’s reaction to her examining tongue as she traced and probed. By the time she was finished, Lestrade was whimpering.

“Delicious, but I don’t think I can manage a second round,” she breathed.

“No matter. I’m more than satisfied.”

Lestrade sat up.

“One last surprise.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Lestrade produced a Thermos flask from her bag.

“I brought that tea you like.”

“There is _no_ place like home,” said Mycroft, grinning.

 

“Ma’am. You need to fasten your seatbelt.”

Mycroft blinked. She clicked the device closed.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said Anthea, good humour restored by Dutch hospitality.

“Strengthening inter-agency collaboration.”

“Between our Ministry and…say… _law enforcement_?”

Mycroft shot him a wary look. He smiled blandly.

_I taught him that smile._

“Yes. Any thoughts…on a mechanism…or medium…respectful, appropriate…of course…for demonstrating…support for law enforcement. Some gesture…or… _token_ …of good will? In the spirit of being good stewards of the public’s trust and resources, of course.”

“Of course,” said Anthea. He looked thoughtful. “Well, law enforcement is notoriously underbudgeted…”

“Yes…”

“And a 24/7 job, response at all hours of the night and day, in all kinds of _weather_ …”

“Yes…”

“An officer who had to cope with insufficient insulation and protection from the elements—in addition to the other the demands of the monumentous job of keeping and restoring law and order, not to mention _justice_ —myself find him or herself at a disadvantage.”

“Ah,” said Mycroft, rubbing her lips. The wheels of the plane were leaving the ground. After a pause, Mycroft said,

“[Burberry](http://uk.burberry.com/the-westminster-long-heritage-trench-coat-p39008451#)…”

“…Westminster…” added Anthea.

“…long…in…”

“Honey,” finished Anthea.

“Thank you,” said Mycroft.

“Not a problem. Apologies for my earlier…outburst.”

Mycroft made a dismissive gesture and opened a newspaper.

“Quite forgotten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Planning a new series about tea. Not sure right now what Mycroft's tea is, but I plan to have fun figuring it out.


	4. Taiwan Taoyuan International (TPE)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft gets a haircut.
> 
> No sex, just some musing about gender and biology and and sexuality and some character exploration of Mycroft.   
> All my stories take place in the same AU. Mycroft's divorce is the subject of Crack in the Ice.

Mycroft scratched the back of her neck.

“I need a haircut.”

Mycroft prided herself on never displaying any jet lag or fatigue in general, but it was a testament to the number of time zones she had crossed and the thousands of miles logged, that she made the blunt—and positively _personal_ —declaration _aloud_.

Consequently, Anthea looked stunned, then worried.

“Some barber shops in Taipei are fronts for…”

“Brothels? Yes, I am aware. I need an _actual_ haircut. I don’t fancy wandering the streets in search of a legitimate and trustworthy operation. And, as of late, I am not terribly keen on using any personalized concierge service.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, at home, who…?”

“I do mind.” Mycroft closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers.

The gesture sent a wave of panic across Anthea’s face.

“I’m on it, ma’am,” he said quickly and a little too loudly.

“Thank you.”

 

“Mycroft Holmes?” The woman in front of Mycroft appeared to be Taiwanese but her accent was pure Hollywood. She wore a denim mini-skirt and short denim jacket. She teetered on a tall, platform wedge shoes; nevertheless, Mycroft towered over her. A large, heavy black bag was hitched on one hip.

“Yes,” answered Mycroft. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the woman’s mouth, which was painted bright orange and popping chewing gum.

“Huh. I was afraid you’d be a pervy American business man.” _Pop. Pop._

“I was afraid you’d be an underaged Chinese prostitute.”

“What a pleasant surprise for both of us.”

“Please come in.”

 

The woman looked around the suite, then gave Mycroft a sweeping glance from head to foot and back.

“Does wearing a three-piece suit make you feel like a man?”

“Does wearing a skirt make you feel like a woman?”

The woman smiled and tapped her temple with one finger, “I’m all woman where it matters.”

“That makes two of us,” countered Mycroft. “I. Need. A. Haircut. Are you any good?”

“Very good.”

Something in the cast of the woman’s eyes, in the slight jut of her chin, reminded Mycroft of a doctor _and a soldier_ and she said,

“Shall we begin?”

“Sure. Time’s a-wastin’” _Pop, pop._

 

Very soon Mycroft was seated by a window, draped in plastic. The woman was wetting her hair with a spray bottle.

“When did you start wearing suits?” _Pull, snip. Pull, snip._

“When did you start wearing skirts?” _Pull, snip. Pull, snip._

“I asked you first. No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Divorce?” _Pull, snip. Pull, snip._

Mycroft looked at the woman warily. _Pull, snip. Pull, snip._

“Ha! I was right! Mmm-hmm. When my parents died. _I didn’t have to be who I wasn’t anymore_.”

Mycroft grunted.

“Girls or boys? Or Both?” The woman switched on the electric clippers. Mycroft didn’t answer. She didn’t look at the woman. Suddenly, the woman spread Mycroft’s legs beneath the plastic. She dropped to her knees and looked up at her. She batted her eyelashes and scanned Mycroft’s face.

“Girls.” _Pop, pop_. The woman stood back up and began moving the clippers along the side of Mycroft’s head.

“I don’t see how it’s any business of yours,” said Mycroft icily.

“No business of mine. Just making conversation.” The woman smiled and moved the clippers around Mycroft’s head. Soon, she was combing Mycroft’s hair and touching the edges with the clippers again.

Mycroft looked down and saw the woman’s bag, gaped open.

“You have a sister,” she said.

“Yup, complete mess, takes my money, my time, my last breath of energy. All for nothing. But whatcha gonna do?” The clippers were at the base of Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft sighed. The clippers were replaced by scissors. Snip, sniiiiip.

“Done. Wanna see?”

“Not particularly.”

“Coward.”

Mycroft laughed.

“Okay.”

A large mirror was in front of her face. Mycroft studied herself as she hadn’t done in quite some time.

“Well done. Thank you.”

The plastic drape came off.

“You look _handsome_ ,” said the woman as she stopped Mycroft from rising from the chair. She huffed her gum in the rubbish bin and dropped between Mycroft’s legs.

“You like this?” she asked. Mycroft stared down at her and smoothed her long hair from her face.

“Yes,” she whispered huskily.

“Me, too. How about this?” She crawled into Mycroft’s lap, hiking her skirt up and perching with knees bent on Mycroft’s thighs.

“Yes.”

“Me, too. This, too?” She turned and faced away from Mycroft, looking over her shoulder and wiggling her arse in Mycroft’s lap.

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh.” She got up and pulled Mycroft to standing and led her to the bedroom. She fell back on the bed and pulled Mycroft atop her.

“This?” she crossed her legs around Mycroft’s’ waist.

“Yes.”

“This?” she twisted on her stomach and pressed back into Mycroft’s crotch.

“Yes.” Then she turned back, twined Mycroft’s hands in her own and reversed their positions. She straddled Mycroft as Mycroft lay flat on the bed.

“Mm?”

“Yes…,” Mycroft looked at the woman’s skirt, “…no.”

“Uh-huh. How about this?” She turned Mycroft on her stomach.

“No.”

She leaned down and whispered in Mycroft’s ear.

“How long did it take you to figure that out?”

“I…think…I just did.” Mycroft flipped back.

“Want me to do your toenails?”

Mycroft laughed. “Why not?”

Silence descended on the room as the woman swiped Mycroft’s toes with bright orange polish.

“You ever think about changing...your biology?” asked the woman softly.

“No. Do you?”

“All the time. Well, I’m done here. Gotta go.”

“Your payment…”

“Was taken care of by your assistant.”

“Then, perhaps a…gift?” Mycroft got up and went to her suitcase. She came back with a decorative Chinese hairstick. She held it out.

“Looks like a museum piece.”

“Stole it from my sister. Who’s a complete mess. May I?”

The woman nodded.

Mycroft twisted the woman’s long hair on the top of her head and secured it with the stick. She turned around quickly and Mycroft wrapped her in her arms and kissed her roughly. When they broke apart, the woman said ,

“You kiss like a man.”

“You flirt like a woman.”

“Good luck, Mycroft Holmes.”

“You, too.”

 

“Nice haircut,” said Anthea.

“Thank you.”

“Rio?”

“Rio.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely going to write something one day about how Sherlock is the only person Mycroft lets cut her hair.


	5. Galeão - Antônio Carlos Jobim International (GIG)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft feels the effects of cachaça and finally wakes up.

“It presents an interesting problem, this little _gap_ in security planning for the World Cup proceedings…”

Mycroft and Anthea were walking through the hotel restaurant. Mycroft paused as they passed a table of tourists. Four individuals were drinking from long straws that fed into one single enormous goblet in the middle of the table. The goblet was filled with ice and cut limes. The base of the goblet was clear and a small goldfish was swimming around inside.

“Caipirinhas. Brazil’s national cocktail. Made with cachaça…”

“I’m aware,” Mycroft cut him off sharply. “I was looking at the goldfish. So, as I was saying…”

 

 

Much later that evening, Mycroft shut off her computer and sighed. She went out to the balcony and paced, then returned to the suite, and continued to pace. Finally she picked up the hotel telephone and pressed a button,

“I would like a caipirinha. Yes. Thank you.”

Soon, Mycroft was sipping the sweet, cold drink on the balcony. Not her normal nightcap of choice, but when in Rio…

She set the empty glass on the table beside the bed. She changed into pyjamas and got ready for bed. She lay flat on her back, staring at the ceiling for some time, and then closed her eyes.

 

 

_Someone was touching her._

Mycroft awoke with a start and began to thrash.

“Shhhhh.”

A finger was pressed to her lips. Mycroft saw a woman, a light-brown skinned woman with long, dark hair. Completely naked. In Mycroft’s bed.

The woman kissed Mycroft.

_This is a dream._

Mycroft kissed her back. While their lips were mingling, Mycroft felt a wet mouth on her neck. She broke the kiss and turned her head, to see a dark-skinned woman with close-cropped dark hair smiling at her.

_This is a dream._

It had to be a dream, because these women were not _arriving_ from anywhere. They were materializing from some erotic miasma under the bed. They must be nymphs that her subconscious had created. With the help of cachaça. So there was nothing to fear.

_Why not just relax and enjoy…_

The women undressed her. Their mouths tasted her skin as it was revealed. Mycroft threw back the bedding to see her naked form sandwiched between these two creatures, and the contrasting skin tones struck her as _beautiful_.

A hot, wet mouth was on her nipple. She hissed. Another was at her neck, licking with wide, wet swathes. Mycroft fondled a heavy breast, teasing the nipple and cupping and squeezing the fullness in her palm. She pulled the woman off her breast and pushed her on her back, bending across the woman’s torso to suckle at the tit and reaching down to pet her mons and play with her clit. The woman at Mycroft’s back kissed down her spine, opened her legs, pushed the knees up slightly, and twisted underneath her. When her tongue pushed inside Mycroft’s cunt, Mycroft moaned. And opened her knees wider. Mycroft switched breasts. Every pass and touch the woman’s tongue gave Mycroft’s cunt was translated to the woman beneath Mycroft, to the breast in her mouth and the cunt under her fingers. The woman was groaning and caressing Mycroft’s back and head, then scratching her back, which made Mycroft stop and purr and arch into the hard nails.

On some unspoken cue, the women pushed Mycroft on her back and kissed down each side of her neck. Mycroft cradled their heads in her hands as they sucked her nipples. She arched her back again and pushed her hips off the bed. Then, she felt another mouth at her core and saw a third head of dark hair buried between her legs.

“Fuck!” she cried out.

And three women—and then a fourth—laughed. They re-positioned her again on her knees, with a tongue in her cunt, one rimming and then probing her arse, and a third plundering her mouth. Mycroft felt her arms faltering and clung to the shoulders of the woman kissing her.

Then, somehow, they were writhing together to a hedonistic rhythm, sweat-sheen bodies spooning, damp cunts grinding into each other and arses. Mycroft watched the spectacle, hypnotized and then cried out into an open mouth. Strong fingers yanked her head back by her hair and lips and teeth and tongues—how many she wasn’t sure anymore—attacked her exposed neck.

Mycroft lined them up and tasted each cunt one-by-one. They sat up and offered her their breasts, which she sucked until she was dizzy. One of them straddled her waist, pinning her arms to the bed, while to expert mouths worked her cunt and arsehole until she was at the brink of climax. Over and over again. Until she was begging, _she, Mycroft Holmes, begging_ , for release.

They wrung orgasm after orgasm from her. Finally, she stilled and just breathed. Well and truly _tired_. Unlike any sensation in her known reckoning. Her companions, sensing her waning energy, curled their limbs around her, creating a coffee-coloured bed of flesh in which she could hide. Rest. Fingertips caressed her tenderly, and Mycroft mewled. She twined her fingers in a hand, laid her head on a bosom, and closed her eyes.

 

Mycroft awoke with a start. She was in the room alone.

She looked down. In pyjamas.

She spun her head. Her eyes widened at the large goblet on the table beside the bed in the exact place where she had rested her glass. She was eye-level with the base. The goldfish stopped swimming and stared at her. Then, it opened its mouth. Mycroft could actually read its little goldfish lips. It was saying,

 

“Ma’am.”

Mycroft opened her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Anthea looked concerned.

“Of course.”

“You’ve been asleep for quite a while. You were making… _noises_. In quite a few languages.”

Mycroft cleared her throat.

“Anthea, the condition of your passport is deplorable. You must remedy that at the first opportunity.” She handed it to him. “Fell out of your jacket.”

Anthea took it and flipped the pages. “US, Haiti, Taiwan, Brazil,” he read aloud with a lascivious smile.

“Anthea,” Mycroft said sternly, “Cheek. Charm. Not synonymous.”

“No,” Anthea agreed, “Only one translates well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All a dream! And all Anthea's fault! Of course.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
